


Save our sons from war, we pray

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bethany Bolton visits a sept.  Set just after the northern forces head south to fight in Robert's Rebellion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save our sons from war, we pray

When her husband rode to war, Bethany visited the sept, mostly out of curiosity. The Boltons, and by extension, their Ryswell cousins, did not have such a thing on their lands, as their reverence, such as it was, had been limited to the old Gods. So she stole into the village, leaving her young son in the care of her sister. She cloaked herself in rough-spun wool so as not to draw attention, and stepped into the small building with a bit of trepidation. It was quiet there, the sound of dripping water echoing from some far-off fount, and here and there were bent figures clustered in front of idols, statues carved from the grey stone that was native to that part of the country, some bowed, some merely standing, all of them gazing up at their gods.

She was not sure where to go, but she assumed that any would serve. Most of the people there were women, and they were crowded before two of the statues: a young woman holding a bower of roses and a knight, sword in hand. But there were other figures as well, each in its own sconce: an old woman holding a lantern; a bearded man, stern, with a scale; a smiling woman with arms outspread; another man, stout and scowling, with a hammer in hand; and a cloaked figure, face concealed, slender hand palming a curved scythe. The muttered prayers and the heavy scent of incense began to overcome her, and Bethany felt herself growing dizzy. Before she could stop herself, she clutched the sleeve of one of the visitors to steady her balance.

“Are you quite all right?” the woman said. Her face was plain yet kind, as was her voice. Bethany held her composure, straightening herself and smoothing her cloak, making sure that her hood covered most of her face. It was dark in the sept, fortunately; the shadows did their part to aid in her concealment.

“I’m just...a bit confused,” she said softly. “Overwhelmed. There are so many and I was raised with the Old Gods, you see.”

Her companion smiled. “It depends then, on what you need.” She looked at Bethany expectantly.

“My husband,” she said simply. “He fights in the Rebellion.” While her motives were clumsy, her fear for Roose was genuine.

“The warrior then,” the older woman said, leading her toward one of the more popular statues. “Make your offerings to him and he will steady his arm in combat and guide his shield against his foes.”

Bethany nodded. “What of these other men? This is…the smith?” she asked, noting the tool. Intrigued, she turned toward the only figure without any petitioners, the hooded one, solitary in a lonely corner.

The other woman’s face paled a bit. “That is the Stranger. He speaks for Death,” she said, “and is nothing to be trifled with.”

Bethany smiled slightly. “Thank you,” she said, and the warmth in her voice was genuine. “I know now what I must do.”

She turned towards that abandoned corner and stood in front of it. Sexless, ambiguous, but not frightening, the Stranger seemed like a friend to her, and Bethany lit a candle, placing it at the base. Her prayers were simple and her words bald. “Make short work of those who would seek to harm him,” she said, her voice quiet and intense, barely a whisper. It reminded her of her husband’s measured tones, and the thought brought tears to her eyes. They’d grown more alike as the years had passed and it pained her to realize that she might never hear that voice again, softly whispering her name as they lay together, conversing with their son, still just a child, calling his men to order in the yard. She blinked back tears. This was no place for weakness. After a time, Bethany found _her_ voice again, and it grew harder as she continued. “Cut down any who would stand in his way. In _my_ way.” She paused, looking around her, to ensure that no one else was within earshot. “Cut down any who would stand in _our_ way.”

She bowed low, forehead brushing the ground, the edge of the figure’s robe and she remained there for a time, fastening tightly her husband’s face in her mind as he’d been on the morning of his departure, his features hardened in preparation for the command that he’d assume until the Bolton forces reached Winterfell, seated on that black destrier he’d bought from her father before their marriage, clad in red armor fashioned to resemble screaming faces. She’d loved that armor, envisioning the design on the roundels as the Targaryens he’d meet in the field, begging for mercy that would not come.

She stood again, eyes blazing, and addressed the Stranger once more. “You will bring him back to me,” she said. It was a command, and with that, Bethany turned on her heel and marched into the sunlight, throwing back her hood as she began the long walk home.


End file.
